


hymn to aphrodite

by badbrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Hot Girls Being Hot Together, POV Lydia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, lydia is thirsty like goddamn someone get her something to drink pls, very brief instance of recreational drug use since they are at a party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29927622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbrains/pseuds/badbrains
Summary: Cora Hale is draped along the wall, fingers loosely gripped around the lip of a cherry-red solo cup. She is the picture of uncaring elegance, all long lines and lean muscles, cold-eyed and stone-faced like her brother. She looks like she doesn’t want to be there and that makes the smoke in Lydia’s mouth ripple with her smile. She isn’t one to chase, she has never had to. But, she has never met a Hale who didn’t have to be tortured into having a good time.
Relationships: Cora Hale/Lydia Martin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	hymn to aphrodite

**Author's Note:**

> trying my hand at some quick femslash because this [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/11ZulcYY4lowvcQm4oe3VJ?si=JTwXopP-TMKc61R9oEt_DQ) ruined my fucking life and i had no other choice. also, as a lover of women, i am kind of shocked that i had not written anything like this before because goddamn it was fun
> 
> anyway, no beta pls enjoy <3

The thing Lydia likes about being a girl is that it means you are also a bitch. It means you’re a cunt, a tease; it means that you sit quiet and blink pretty, lest they all bind you to a stake, burn the mad woman. 

It means that she’s powerful. 

Sitting on her couch for her eighteenth birthday, gingerly wrapping her lips around a pipe that a guy from the basketball team is lighting for her, she traces her eyes along the people in her living room. 

Cora Hale is draped along the wall, fingers loosely gripped around the lip of a cherry-red solo cup. She is the picture of uncaring elegance, all long lines and lean muscles, cold-eyed and stone-faced like her brother. She looks like she doesn’t want to be there and that makes the smoke in Lydia’s mouth ripple with her smile. She isn’t one to chase, she has never had to. But, she has never met a Hale who didn’t have to be tortured into having a good time. 

There is something, Lydia thinks, about constantly being on the cusp of near-death that skews your outlook. Where she would have scoffed at Cora’s obviously intentional devil-may-care, I-could-be-anywhere-else demeanor, she finds herself wanting to curl her tongue into the space between her collarbones. Wants to see if you can taste heartache. Where she would have criticized masculinity on such a pretty girl, she finds her eyes caught on how Cora’s dark-wash denim jacket bunches up around her shoulders, how it pulls taut around her biceps when she stretches out her forearm and flexes her fingers around the cup just for something to do. How her white t-shirt clings to her stomach, where she is hard-lined instead of soft-skinned. It makes Lydia _want_.

Lydia has never had to want for long. 

She allows her head to fall back, propped on the couch cushions. She casts a low-lidded gaze across the room, wants to make sure Cora sees how she bares her neck, how her pulse hammers in her throat. 

She does. She narrows her eyes, rakes them unhurriedly along the bare skin, trails them down down down where Lydia’s dress splits into a neckline that dips low and makes her look like silk, soft as velvet. Nothing but pliant curves adorned in floral print. 

The ‘wolf smirks, raises a brow in concession, in admission of _oh yeah?_ Cora shrugs a shoulder like she doesn’t give a fuck, looks away and takes a sip of whatever she has sloshing in her cup that can’t get her drunk. It makes Lydia’s tongue feel thick where she is pressing it into the backs of her teeth, she doesn’t know if it is from how she feels electrified all over or the opaque haze of smoke clinging to the air around her. It makes her wonder what Cora looks like, underneath it all, how her breath would feel if it were panted along the space by her ear. How her voice would taste, if her words sound different smeared into the skin of Lydia’s shoulder. If her fingers would sink into the flesh of her hips, if her fingernails would hurt or leave scratches to pick at like souvenirs. 

She doesn’t know how they end up in the bathroom, the door slammed shut and locked haphazardly while Billboard’s Top 40 makes the walls vibrate like the house is alive. Lydia has her head pressed back against the mirror, the glass rattling every time she shifts. The skirt of her dress is rippled around her waist, bunched up by her stomach and wrinkled where she is attempting to dig her fingers into something, scrambling for purchase. Cora has her fingers pressed deep into her thighs, the flesh pale white around her grip. The points of her nails are pricked into the crease of Lydia’s hips and every time she grinds she can feel them sink deeper, sting better. 

Cora’s shirt is off, hung limp on the doorknob like a sign of surrender. It’s nearly see-through, the door handle glinting gray beneath it, and Lydia squeezes her eyes shut. Goddamn. The jacket is discarded on the floor, outlined by the marble tile. Her arms are strong, torso straight and narrow above the waist of her jeans, skin dark around her plain bra. Lydia slips her fingers beneath the straps, roots her fingernails into the space between Cora’s shoulder blades while the ‘wolf scrapes her teeth along the hinge of her jaw, trails her teeth slow slow slow to the curve of her chin until she is licking hot into Lydia’s mouth. Her head thumps back and shakes the mirror, making her embed her nails farther, harder, retaliation for the way Cora’s lips tug in a cocky smile. 

She traces the point of her tongue along the ridge in Lydia’s palate, it makes her lips drop open and her body shake with a tremor - from pleasure or how it makes her nerves tickle, she’ll never tell. 

“You taste like mango,” is spoken damp into her mouth, slipped between the slight curve of her smirk. 

“You taste like you should stop talking,” she returns, still feeling frayed and half-dazed. 

When the ‘wolf pulls back, she does it with her teeth tight around Lydia’s bottom lip, makes her lean forward to chase it, makes her cheeks go hot and her eyes fall half-shut with how badly she wants it. Cora presses her thumb into the space above Lydia’s jaw, keeps her mouth propped open like she can do whatever she’d like. She can. 

“Lydia Martin, so smart, so much smarter than everyone else,” she whispers it but it isn’t gentle, it’s mocking, airy and teasing in a way that makes her bow outward, the wings of her shoulders pressed hard against the mirror. Cora slides her hand down, smooths it languidly along Lydia’s side, trails teasing fingertips across her neckline, dipping down quickly when gooseflesh pebbles up but not staying long enough for Lydia to get anything out of how her hips rock forward. Cora brings her mouth down her neck, her upper lip dragging hot and wet all the way down. “Well, how about I teach you something.”

The way the lace trim on her underwear catches her legs on the way down makes her breathing pick up, makes the room feel sweltering. Cora kisses up her legs, curls her hands into Lydia’s dress on either side of her thighs and holds the fabric tight against the counter. She laves her tongue and Lydia keens, digs her heels into the cabinets and makes them rattle, the noise echoing between them. She licks hot stripes and Lydia squeezes her hands white-knuckled into her dress, turns her face to the side until her breath coats the closest surface of the mirror in condensation, the tip of her nose gliding through it while every noisy exhale mists it in fog. 

Her hands end up fisted in Cora’s hair, hips rocking, lips pleading.

Cora stands, twists her fingers where she was curling her tongue. She pushes Lydia’s knee into the denim below the metal run of her zipper, grinds shaky and slow while she kisses and bites at the juncture of Lydia’s neck and shoulder. She is helpless where she is usually commanding, so used to being in charge that she doesn’t know how to sit back with her eyes squeezed shut, her hand wrapped so tight around Cora’s wrist in a plea for _anything,_ _anything you will give me._ The space behind her eyes feels hot with how the tendons above Cora’s pulse are shifting everytime her fingers curl. 

Lydia stares at the side of Cora’s neck, how it jumps with every swallow, how every so often a slight golden glow will flicker in and fizzle out. Cora props her free hand against the mirror to help lever herself back and forth, fingers squeaking against the condensation Lydia left there for her. She feels like she has gone aflame from the inside. Hales know how to play with fire. 

Cora is giving where so many boys have wanted to take, incites pleasure wordlessly in places where Lydia has always had to beg, always had to create for herself. She buries her teeth in her lower lip when her stomach burns white-hot, but she keeps her eyes open. Drawn to the sheen of sweat decorating the flex of Cora’s bicep. When she moans, vision trickling gray and blurry, Cora’s movements turn erratic, unmeasured. She is murmuring into Lydia’s neck, smearing words that don’t mean anything, embedding the phrases there to be remembered later, played from tooth-shaped bruises. 

She groans deep in her throat, hips stuttering while she shudders, nose pressed above Lydia’s collarbone. 

When they pull apart, Cora’s face is pleasantly flushed, eyes dark and skin pink. Lydia knows that whatever she looks like is wrecked far worse, can see her hair frizzed, tangled in her peripheral, her dress has been pulled off one shoulder and her underwear are still dangling from her left ankle. 

Cora licks her lips where they are pulled into a small, self-satisfied smirk. She bends forward and Lydia leans toward her, still pleasure-drunk, ready for a kiss. Cora huffs a laugh, dips closer and keeps going down as Lydia leans and leans and leans. She bypasses her, retrieving her jacket from the floor, fisting it in one hand while she pulls her shirt from the door. Lydia tries not to let herself sneer at that. Cora tugs it on over her head and finally relents, pressing a kiss to her parted lips. She drapes the jacket across Lydia’s shoulders and smooths a hand along the crown of her head, laying her hair down. 

“Happy birthday,” she murmurs low, punctuates it with a wink. When she opens the door, the music slices into the quiet atmosphere they created, the carefully constructed air of frantic serenity. 

Lydia smiles to herself, adjusts her dress under Cora’s jacket and wipes at the spots where her mascara has smeared before she steps out.

One thing she likes most about being a girl is other girls. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> don't u just love it when women <3


End file.
